


Shadows, Candlelight

by glasscamellias



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grimm Troupe DLC, Sibling Bonding, Vessel OC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 19:20:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19933186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasscamellias/pseuds/glasscamellias
Summary: In the folds of a dangerous circus tent, the Knight finds someone strange but familiar, and, no matter how much they want to hold on, lets them go. Of course, not without their first hug, some charades, and a very quiet family reunion beforehand.





	Shadows, Candlelight

There is one mask different from all the others bobbing in the stands. It has horns, and dark pits for eyes, and while the Knight stares transfixed up at it, a bat made of fire winds itself around them. They burn so quickly they barely feel it.

In further attempts to battle the troupe master, they don’t look again or try to think about it at all. Once Grimm had noticed that glance, he hadn’t stopped smiling. They try very hard not to think about that either.

-

After over a dozen tries, their violent dance finally ends. Their cloak is so heavy with ash it’s gone completely black; Grimm looks bizarrely worn out for someone so collected; the audience screams with praise.

“You’ve honored myself and my company with your performance,” Grimm rasps out, so quiet that they lean in to hear him. When the Grimmchild reappears in a burst of heat, larger now, they dart between their equally exhausted “parents,” unsure of whose cheek to nuzzle. Finally they choose his, and he pets his child with unsteady hands.

Grimm bows once more, though his legs tremble and it looks like staying upright is an immense effort. “Our ritual is coming to a close, my friend. Soon we will perform the final act. But... I would suggest resting before retrieving the remaining flames, as I shall. We can wait for a time.”

Although the weight of their mask threatens to topple them, they bow back, keeping the position until he vanishes into a burst of fire. Only then do they let themself fall in an ungainly heap on the stage floor.

The moment he disappears, the Grimmkin audience swarms out and onto the stage. They grip their nail, wondering if this is the last trial of flames, but they’re... ignored? The Troupe members scrub the scorch marks from the floor and dust the ash from the lanterns and hang new banners to replace the blackened, burnt ones. The chatter is overwhelming. They need _quiet,_ but the thought of wading through this chaos wears them out even more.

As they ponder the merits of laying there and waiting for the Grimmkin to clear out, something wet nudges into their leg. Very, very slowly, they roll over onto their back and look up at a Grimmkin peering down at them with a mop in hand.

A Grimmkin that didn’t look like the others, with a form that could have only come from the Abyss and branching horns draped in delicate chains. The mask is faintly iridescent rather than flat white, and it has those same lines extending out from the eyeholes. Their cloak is not too different than Grimm’s, black and red with a flared collar. Is this who they saw in the stands? Is this truly a vessel and not another fake?

And, when their eyes meet, the Grimmkin flings their mop aside and drops to the floor, wrapping their arms around the Knight.

They have never been embraced before, and they instinctively reach for their weapon, before the soft warm of this Grimmkin, this _Vessel_ , registers. They have been patted before, by the Elderbug and Quirrel, but no one has ever done this. And, to further prove that they are no danger, the Grimmchild descends and joins them, cooing and wriggling against them both, rather than spitting fire and shrieking.

They’re very soft. The carapaces of bugs aren’t terrible, pleasant from those few times the Knight could touch without pain on either side, but the void of another body is so familiar. It doesn’t hurt too much to have another Vessel laying on them. Their cloak stings against the burns, but uninjured, it would likely be a joy to touch.

As it begins to feel as if this Vessel might never let go, their arms loosen, and they sit up, helping the Knight to slowly do the same. As the Knight watches, hazy with happy confusion, they clap furiously, as they had during the dance. It’s odd to be praised so much.

Applause complete, they stand, hand locked with theirs, so close that they can feel wisps of void passing between them. A part of them is with the Knight, and vice versa. Their legs wobble, but they don’t fall.

Most of the cleaning has finished during their embrace, and the Grimmkin rush to new tasks: arranging fresh tapestries, hanging chains and rings to the ceiling, and carrying armloads of props and costumes every which way.

Another show? They have more flames to collect, so why is it starting so soon?

Or is it for an entirely different audience?

Panic gives them a final burst of energy, and they clutch at the Grimmvessel. There’s a whole potential audience right outside the tent walls, not knowing what Grimm’s show entails. They try to think of Bretta or the Elderbug failing to dodge the flames. The kind villagers (and Zote) don’t deserve the burns they had barely survived. Do they have time to heal before rushing back to protect them?

Though they had been in the audience to see that dance, they don’t radiate the same expressionless shock as the Knight. If anything, they seem excited, bouncing on their feet and patting at them with their free hand. Did they not know any better?

Regardless, here is a person who might listen to them and stop all of this. They aren’t sure this sibling would agree with their worry, not as a member of the Troupe itself, but...

They did a quick pantomime of Grimm: the bow and his abrupt attacks (though they had to settle for pointing at lantern flames to mimic most of them), standing as tall as they could and flaring their cloak. To their credit, the Vessel is absorbed by this, giving their full attention. The dashes are painful, so they indicate them with a single step. A few taps at their cracked mask to show damage. And, to make it very clear, they shuffle a few steps away to indicate they weren’t Grimm anymore, and slump to the ground, “defeated.”

And... they nod, as if affirming that yes, that was what occurred mere minutes before, but what about it? Flustered, the Knight repeats the dying action, complete with weakly reaching into the air before their arm goes limp. They stay there, motionless, and their sibling circles their body, head tilting one way and another. It’s not the way a Vessel dies, but soon they understand.

They heave the Knight back onto their feet and shake their head so wildly that their horn chains chime. Completely abandoning their mop, still laying on the floor in a puddle, they snatch up the Knight’s hand and drag them out of the chaos and into the quieter hallway. The troupe master himself is nowhere to be found, and Brumm’s music doesn’t greet them. Their sibling leads them to Divine’s tent instead.

“Ah, lovely, you brought our caller!” Divine rubs her claws together, and while they linger at the doorway, the vessel wanders over, climbing onto her abdomen. She doesn’t protest, going so far as to pat them on the head.

“So you’ve met our littlest flame, our lovely Nacre. Well, have you come with another present? Come closer! I can't smell anything yet!”

(Nacre? Is that their name? The word is unfamiliar, but they roll it around in their mind, wondering at the shape of it. They are not just the Vessel, not just the Grimmkin. _Nacre_.)

Before she could become too worked up, they tapped at her arm and slid to the floor. As she watched intently, they begin to repeat the pantomime, playing Grimm far more accurately than the Knight could, twirling and letting harmless wisps of fire drift from their hands.

Between surprise and exhaustion, it takes a moment to remember their own role and a few more to rein themself in. It feels unnatural, but their “blows” amount to the tiniest taps of the flat of the nail, not wanting to hurt them. After a minute of this clumsy “dance” the Knight slumps down with real exhaustion, at the same time pointing back to the stage and then to the tent door leading back into the town.

“Oh? But another dance can’t happen so soon! The ritual isn’t nearly complete. You can’t dance without the flames.”

They points wildly to the wall adjacent to the main tent while Nacre gestures to her and between the two of them, she seems to understand. “Ohhh. Did you want to attend one of the minor shows? Far less thrilling, but hardly a bore.” Frustrated, they “die” again, letting their mask loll to one side.

Divine laughs at this. “Do you think all of our shows are so intense? Yours was a special showing! We’d be run from a thousand kingdoms if the dance was our only act.” They point again to the door. “Yes, we’ve invited the town. Hardly a showing! It would be cruel for you to deny us one extra audience member.”

She’s not the most trustworthy bug they’ve met, but between her words and Nacre’s enthusiasm, maybe it really won’t be as dangerous as they assumed? Still hesitant, they nod, and Nacre hops in excitement.

She sniffs at them, and they try their best not to flinch back. “Mmm, but do clean up before the show. Our master wouldn’t want you two to show up battered and covered in ash, though you may leave the latter.” Nacre climbs up to give her fluff one last nuzzle and then darts out the door, pulling the Knight along.

The bench seems to gleam as they limp towards it. They climb up and flop onto their side, once they’ve confirmed that every position hurts. The Elderbug leans over to check on them, with a hand against their mask, but they don’t know what he’s looking for. He looks worried. If they stay there too much longer, Iselda will poke her head out and probably make a similar expression and touch them.

Though there’s enough room for both of them, Nacre paces in front of the bench, watching them heal. Elderbug finally notices them when they put a cautious hand on the Knight’s side, and they wave furiously to him.

“Ah,” the Elderbug says, surveying them. “You’ve made a new friend. I’ll leave you two alone, shall I?” Not _very_ alone, shuffling a few feet away to his normal spot, but they didn’t mind. Of course he would be suspicious of someone coming from the troupe he’s so unnerved by.

Maybe they stay on the bench a little too long, but when they do hop down, their body feels much better, just...dirty. With how energetic they are, the Knight expects them to lead the way, but Nacre stares at them, head tilted, as if to ask where the hot spring is. It’s not surprising that the Troupe members don’t explore unless it’s to find the flames; if one became infected, it could easily spread to the whole tent.

The crossroads aren’t scenic and calm anymore, but it is the quickest route to a spring, so the Knight takes them there through the stagway station. They’re enraptured by all of it, timidly reaching up to pat the stag as he grumbled about how it was nice to see they had family; clinging onto the Knight as they raced through the tunnels; waving wildly to him as they left.

It would have been more reassuring to see Nacre with a nail in hand, but, like the Grimmchild, the little bursts of fire that they produce repel infected husks before they can get in range. Regardless, they stick close, trying not to step on any of the mounds or veins of infection. The hot spring can’t come soon enough, and they both sprint into the water, accidentally splashing a bug who grumbles and wades to the other side.

As they scrub their mask, Nacre unclasps their cloak and begins to swish it through the water. There’s only a few smudges from their embrace, but they scrub at it diligently, including spots that look clean to the Knight’s eyes. In comparison, their own cloak leaves a dark cloud around them, and they haven’t even taken it off. (The other bather huffs and climbs out, leaving the spring to them.)

Their bath takes much longer, but Nacre doesn’t seem to mind, paddling from one end to another with little pauses to splash them. When the Knight is finally done, they swim over to join them, where they lean against the stone rim of the spring and scratch idly into the soil. It gives them a frightening, exciting thought.

Clumsily, next to a doodle of Brumm, they trace out their sibling’s name. After a quick adjustment for spelling, Nacre nods happily, water flicking from their mask.

After checking to make sure there’s no one else to witness it, the Knight begins to scrawl their own name, sister-bestowed and sacred. No one has ever read it before, not Mato or Quirrel or anyone else.

Nacre traces the symbols, careful not to smudge, and then repeats the motions against Ghost’s arm. Ghost imagines they will remember it; maybe they’ll write it themself and imagine having a voice to speak _sibling Ghost_.

Ghost sinks into Nacre’s embrace and stays there for minutes. When they do separate, it’s hesitant, and they stick close. This is the longest they’ve ever spent in a hot spring. Time and their worries do not stop, but they’re a little slower, kinder.

Until it ends. The clasp of Nacre’s cloak flares, and suddenly they’re sloshing out of the hot spring and waving for Ghost to join them. Is that the way the Troupe summons each other? It takes only a few flaming twirls to dry their cloak, and they flail in amusement at Ghost’s clinging attire, then applaud as they dry it with a few quick uses of Crystal Heart.

It’s uncomfortable, seeing them rush back at Grimm’s call, and when Ghost tries to draw them on a different path, they squirm and wave back towards the well. They have to push their sibling the rest of the way, but the moment Nacre crosses the threshold of the Temple of the Black Egg, they stop fighting.

There’s so much infection now, crawling up the walls and covering the floor. They slash a few growths out of the way to give them a clean path to the dais. Only one seal remains on the egg, a mask with four eyes.

It would have been kinder to take Nacre to the statue instead, something clean and noble and painless. But this is _real_. Taking Nacre’s hand, they push it against the warm, shaking stone.

Another sibling, they say, gesturing between them and the egg. Another vessel.

They understand immediately, palms pressed so firmly that their hands waver, void trying to find a crack to seep into and failing. Had they heard their sibling’s call too, in whatever far-off kingdom the troupe had traveled from?

Slowly, Nacre spells out both of their names onto the stone and then taps it decisively. What is _their_ name? Who is this new vessel, trapped alone and crying in pain?

With nothing more accurate to give, they trace out _Hollow_ , though it’s a cruel and inaccurate name. They aren’t empty. They’re full of hope and infection and so much emotion that the whole temple shivers with it.

 _Hollow,_ Nacre repeats, and then they embrace the egg as far as their short arms can reach. Does Hollow know they’re standing so close? Hopefully that can give them extra strength until they can be freed. Another summons lights up Nacre’s face with red light, but when they leave, it’s far more reluctant.

Their return to the town is subdued, but as music drifts toward them, the mood lifts. As they pass through Dirtmouth, both the Elderbug and Bretta have left their normal spots, clearly invited to the show. Zote’s still there, grumbling to himself, and they tug Nacre past before he can start insulting them too. They look back, confused at the sight of an apparent vessel, but they shake their head and keep walking into the Troupe’s tent.

Instead of heading for the stage, Nacre brings them to a section of tent that looks indistinguishable from the rest, but when the fabric is pulled aside, it leads to a staircase and then, to the stands. They freeze.

Where there had been regular seats before, a throne is placed in the highest row. On it, Grimm is curled on top of a pile of pillows and blankets, another blanket draped over his shoulders like a second cloak. His cheek rests against a pillow laying across an armrest, and he looks moments away from sleep. If they sneak away, then surely he wouldn’t hear, but Nacre marches up to him instead, tugging them along.

Grimmchild floats away from them to land on their father, and he gathers them close with a strange look. “Hello, my child, my dear summoner. I assumed you would have rushed off to the final flames once you had rested, as quickly as you retrieved the others.” When they shift back, ready to run out, he waves a dismissive, shaking hand. “No, no. I was not scolding you.” His voice is a tiny whisper that they lean closer to catch. All of the Grimmkin stop their fidgeting and chattering to let him speak. He sounds ill, like the smoke hurt him too.

(His eyes still glow red; Grimm isn’t infected. Whatever is happening, at least he isn’t orange inside.)

Nacre taps on his leg in a pattern that seems meaningless to them, but clearly he understands. “As I’m sure they’ve reassured you, these little shows are no harm at all. Minor acrobatics, a few magic tricks. The audience and performers are both safe.

“Will you join us for one last show before the finale? If you’d like--” Grimm pauses to cough, sounding like something has torn loose in his chest. “My kin would be pleased. They so enjoyed your performance that I’m sure they wouldn’t mind giving you one in return.”

Hesitantly, they nod. If something bad _does_ happen, they’ll be ready for it.

They thought Nacre would sit and watch with them, but they dart away after a quick hug, jumping down to the stage below and behind the curtain.

Grimm pats the empty space that his thin body doesn’t take up. “Would you sit with me, friend?” Maybe it’s odd to hop up and share a seat with someone who successfully lit you on fire dozens of times, but he doesn’t seem like a threat now. After the hot spring, they’re as prepared as they could be for another fight, while Grimm looks like he has never experienced a bench in his life and maybe wouldn’t understand what to do with one if he had.

(He’s feverish, so much so that they can feel heat drifting off of him without having to touch. With all the talk about flames and burning, maybe the Ritual is turning him into some sort of bonfire?)

The show’s introduction is a minor version of Grimm’s, circling lights and red smoke, and then it begins.

The Grimmkin launch into acts that hardly look dangerous at all. They juggle, they swing through the air, they act out a voiceless play that doesn’t make sense to them, but a few audience members laugh. One brings out a little tiktik that does small tricks, jumping through hoops and balancing a ball on its snout as it skitters along.

And in the middle of it, Nacre weaves flames around the other performers. The juggler’s spheres alight, flowers and stars bloom around the acrobats, each strike of a drum is punctuated by a bright flare. Not a single spark reaches the audience, and once they calm down and stop making escape plans, it’s beautiful to watch.

“Look at how energetic their performance is,” Grimm rasps out. “They’ve always been dedicated, but they’re pushing themself even further for you.”

They don’t want to look away, so they tap his hand, waiting for him to say more. “You needn’t worry for them; they will be well taken care of when they and the Troupe travel onward. A vessel, of all creatures, deserves that.” His hand closes around theirs, minding the claws. It didn’t surprise them to realize he knows what they both are.

After the end of this strange ritual, the performers will go. It’s a reminder, not a revelation. And it’s a good thing, for Nacre not to linger too long, but...

Grimm sighs. “It’s a far kinder thing to fill a vessel with art, isn’t it? We would have recruited more, but Nacre is the only one we found alive. I’d offer you a place as well, but you have greater plans.” Reluctantly, they nod. “Whatever your path, your sibling will be kept safe, so complete the Ritual with no regrets.”

Luckily, he doesn’t say anything more, nothing to distract them from the finale. Ghost watches, enraptured, as they create a featureless silhouette of a fiery bug that begins to perform its own acrobatics among the Grimmkin. Part of it flicker and dim, an antenna or a foot here and there, but the rest of it carries on, spinning and leaping through the air. Nacre’s limbs shake when they finally guide their puppet down to the stage floor, where it spins until its body scatters into fire maskflies that flit around the tent.

The rest of the Grimmkin teleport or float to the stage, and as they bow and the applause starts, the maskflies burst into sparks showering down on them harmlessly. They clap until their hands sting, and they have the feeling Nacre is looking up at them and no one else.

They turn to gesture goodbye to Grimm, only to find him almost asleep, a slit of red eyes visible. Even the applause and cheering doesn’t stir him. None of the performers seem put out at this, but it’s awkward--they hop off the throne and stare, not knowing what else to do. It takes the gentle prodding of two much larger Grimmkin to rouse him. He gives Ghost a clumsy pat on the head and, with his kin’s help, lurches off into a section of tent they’ve never been in before.

As he leaves, they bounce down to the stage, hurtling themself at Nacre. The two of them topple over with the force of their dash, but Nacre doesn’t seem hurt, leaping back up. They don’t know the words to explain how beautiful it had been, so they wave their arms wildly, nearly clipping a few Grimmkin as they head outside.

A few steps past the tent entrance, they lower their arms and go still. The incense clinging to them is blown away by the Dirtmouth breeze, and reality returns. The Grimmchild chirrups loudly, darting over their heads, inadvertently making sure they couldn’t forget the Ritual for even a moment.

As the child wiggles across their map, marking the flames with a piece of chalk, Nacre slips over to them and squeezes their hand, standing so close that the edges of their cloaks threaten to tangle together.

They reach up, unwinding one of the chains from their horns, silver strung with red beads. They loop it around to make a narrow band around the Knight’s horn, neatly out of the way so it couldn’t impede their vision.

They stare, uncomprehending, when Nacre offers a second chain, jingling it with impatience. _For Hollow_ , they spell against Ghost’s arm. _When they hatch_.

Before they can gesture something along the lines of _are you sure_ , Nacre presses their mask to the Knight’s, hugging them fiercely, as if they believed that their two voids could mix together so thoroughly that they could never separate.

They should be happy that their sibling is safe, exploring other kingdoms with friendly faces around them. Or they shouldn’t feel anything at all. It’s Nacre who pulls away first, and with a little wave, they retreat into the main tent, its flap now closed.

-

They scan for their sibling in the crowd, even as the nightmare tears them apart, but they’re nowhere to be seen.

When they wake up from their victory, the tents are gone, and with them, Grimmvessel Nacre.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a big fan of vessels being saved, so I made an enthusiastic circus void who's living their best life.


End file.
